


We Take Care of Each Other

by keyflight790



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, BDSM, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-06-15 06:29:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyflight790/pseuds/keyflight790
Summary: Neither Draco nor Harry have been ok since the war.  That's a laugh; it's not like they were ok before the war either.  Several Trigger Warnings: Panic Attacks, Anxiety Attacks. These kids never had a chance at an easy, emotionally stable life.  At least they have each other, and an amazing support system.





	1. Not a Hero

The group stood backstage as the guests and reporters took their seats.  Draco ran his hand through his hair, checking that each strand was still perfectly in place.  He was careful not to make eye contact with any of the others. He couldn't handle what he might find in their gaze.

The lights on the stage grew bright as they were motioned to walk onto the platform.  Harry went first, hands in his pockets as he stepped out to the bright cheers of the audience.  He stood, slightly hunched, forcing his grimace into a smile as he waited for the others.

Potter looked relieved as Hermione joined him, walking quickly, reaching out a hand and giving him a quick squeeze of support.  Draco breathed a little, knowing that this was just as uncomfortable for the Chosen One as it was for him.

Ron completed the Golden Trio on stage, followed shortly by Neville.  The crowd erupted at the sight of him. One of the few stories that had been released was of Neville, standing strong in front of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and slicing the head off of that damned snake.  Draco shuddered, his mind clutching to an image: Nagini slithering on the Manor floor, blood following in its wake.

Draco's hand went to his neck, searching.  He felt the hard metal through his shirt, breathing in its comfort.  He couldn't wait, couldn't run. He took one more breath before he stepped on the platform.  His eyes winced against the bright lights, careful to keep his expression neutral as he joined the other Award winners.

The crowd, which was previously roaring in pleasure, fell into small gasps and murmured confusion.

He felt Potter's eyes on him as he stood, but he couldn't glance, couldn't look at him.  His eyes stared straight ahead, slightly upwards, the only sign of his discomfort in his balled-up fists.  He had expected this reaction, after all.

_ Draco Malfoy had no idea what he was doing there, either. _

The Ministry of Magic had organized tonight's Awards Ceremony on the first anniversary of the end of the war.  It was an opportunity for the community to honor the lost, the damaged, the dead. It was also an opportunity to honor the brave, the strong, the heroic.

He hadn't been a hero that day, and he certainly hadn't been brave.  In fact, he had run as soon as he could. He hadn’t been able to stay.  Not when he had seen the Dark Lord, his parents. Seen Potter limp, like a dead carcass, buried in Hagrid's trembling arms.   He hadn't been able to even breathe after that, let alone stay and fight.  How could he, when everything he loved had crumbled swiftly around him, leaving him nothing to grasp, nothing to hold.

He found out later, after waves and waves of trembling defeat, that Potter had lived.  That they had won.

They had all destroyed Horcruxes.  Draco hadn't destroyed anything, except his own soul.

Yet here he was, being marked as a hero.  Like that was supposed to remove his other mark, his darkest mark.  The mark that carried the immeasurable weight of the horrible things that happened that day, that year, that life.

\--

He could have said no; he knew that.  When Shacklebolt had Flooed him, he had nearly choked on his tea.  It was ridiculous that they wanted to award Draco with a Medal of Magical Merit.  He’d pushed up his sleeve, pushed his Dark Mark directly in the Minister of Magic's face.

"This is what you want to honour?" he’d spat, his anger boiling quickly to the surface.

To his surprise, Kingsley had continued to breathe steadily, as if he’d expected this reaction.  He waited patiently while Draco calmed, pulling his sleeve back down.  He had barely been able to hold eye contact with the man as he felt his heart return to its steady pattern.

"Why then," he had mumbled, more to himself than to the Minister.

"It's our choices that show us who we really are," Kingsley had voiced with a slight wave of his hand.

Draco rolled his eyes.  He had heard Dumbledore's words repeated over and over again the past year.

"I made some fucking awful choices, Minister," he’d sighed, pushing his head into his hands.

Kingsley had given him an encouraging smile.  "Son, we both know those weren't your choices.  What you've done since, however, are yours and yours alone." 

Draco snapped his head up.  "How do you know about that," he had snapped with a glare.

Kingsley shrugged before ending the call.

\--

"Tonight, we recognize and remember the heroes and the fallen of the Second Wizarding War," Kingsley's voice echoed throughout the room, silencing the rumbling within the guests rows. "The following witches and wizards are on this stage for their gallant acts of bravery before, during and after the war.  We thank them for their efforts to protect Hogwarts and their fellow students by presenting them with the Medal of Magical Merit."

Shacklebolt placed the gold medal around each of their necks.  He could hear Neville crying softly on his right. Draco knew his father, Frank Longbottom, had also received the award during his time in school.  Receiving the same medal must have felt so rewarding to him. To Draco, it felt like a curse.

The ribbon on his neck felt like a noose, his tie too tight, his shirt too heavy.  He closed his eyes to focus on his breathing, practicing the tips he had learned to control his anxiety.

He needed to detach from this moment, so he didn't flee from the stage.  Draco instead targeted his senses towards his surroundings.

He focused on something he could smell.  Breathing deeply he wafted in the woody smell that Neville carried after nights in the greenhouse.   _ Good,  _ he thought, inhaling the scent of pine and dirt.  Then he trained his thoughts towards something he could hear, pushing through the uncomfortable chatter of the crowd and directing his ears towards the small noise of Ron shuffling his feet from side to side. Draco could already feel the apprehension releasing, thankful that git never could stay still.

 

_ One more, _ Draco thought as he reached towards his neck, pulling out the small silver chain he hid under his shirt.  He grasped the tiny charm, careful to avoid the thick straps of the medal that still weighed heavily on his chest.

Taking one more deep breath, he reopened his stormy grey eyes.  Slowly, he could feel the panic evading; still he couldn’t remove his hand from his neck.  He just wished this entire thing was over, so he could Apparate to the comfort of his flat.  He loved the anonymity, knowing that his neighbors were blissfully unaware what that blasted mark on his arm meant.  Not that they ever saw him. He could count the number of times he had left on one hand. Why would he? Everything he needed was in the comfort of those four walls.

Draco allowed his senses to focus again on the heavy noise of the room, catching only the tail-end of Shacklebolt’s final remarks. The crowd had begun to stand, clapping for their heroes.  Draco had staved the panic attack, but he knew the crippling effects would soon overcome him. He turned and walked quickly off the stage as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He couldn't stand there anymore; he couldn't take their cheers, their praise.  It wasn't for him. It shouldn't be for him.

He walked, his steps tense and swift, as he made his way backstage, finding a corner that was surrounded by thick, black curtains.  Bending at the knees, Draco placed his hands on his thighs and took several short pulls of air through his nose before breathing them slowly out his trembling lips.  The darkness pulled him in, providing him sweet solace from the world outside.

He felt the weakness in his bones, his stomach constrict.  Sweat began to gather in the weirdest places, behind his neck, under his kneecaps, on his wrists.  He felt clammy, somehow cold and hot at the same time. His head began to fog, his focus slipped away once again.

Draco forced breaths, in and out, in and out, focusing on the steady rhythm and the security of the darkness surrounding him as he stumbled through his latest attack.  It felt like it would never end, his heart pounding rapidly, the black curtains closing in. He pushed the thought out of his head.  _ It will pass,  _ he mumbled to himself.   _ This will pass, it always does. _

After a few moments, his breathing became steadier and his hands stopped shaking.  He gave himself a series of ten breaths, three times, confirming that his body was loosening and his heart was beating at a normal, although slightly elevated, rate.  He rolled his neck, letting out a sigh of relief.

Pulling back the curtains, Draco stepped into the dimly lit hallway - right into a group of people.

Neville, Hermione and Ron stood waiting for him to emerge from the corner in a half-circle.

Draco instantly wished he was back in his curtain cocoon, away from their concerned stares.  He didn't need their sympathy and he certainly didn't deserve it. He had been careless to assume no one else had witnessed his panic. Tightening his jaw, he ached to get to the nearest Apparition point and get the hell out of there.  Then he could rip off this stupid medal, crawl into bed and allow the day to drain away from him.

"You alright?" Ron asked hesitantly, glancing at Draco's curled fists.

"Draco, if you ever need to talk to someone..." Hermione trailed off, a look of concern blanketing her face.

"Guys, leave him alone."

The Slytherin looked left, a knot in his chest tightening. Harry Potter stood four yards away, arms at his sides, his fingers contracted slightly.

He glanced casually at Draco, his lips pressed tightly together.  He nodded his head once, raising his eyebrows slightly.

His opponent nodded in return, the motion so small it could have been missed easily.

"C'mon, let's go grab a pint," Harry beckoning to the other three.

Neville and Hermione turned to follow, but Ron stayed exactly where he was, his gaze still locked on the blond.

"Want to join us, Malfoy?" Ron asked softly. 

Hermione glanced back, beaming at her boyfriend. The corner of Draco's lips turned up in the slightest smile.

"Thank you, Ronald, but not tonight," he replied.

Ron returned the smile, and with a quick nod he turned and followed the others out of the auditorium.

\--

Draco almost ran to the Apparition point in the alley beside the theatre.  After the aggressive twist, he threw the heavy medal onto the kitchen table in his flat.  He felt sticky and nauseous as he loosened his tie and ripped off his dress robes. Leaving them in a hasty pile in the hallway, the blond hurried to the bathroom before hurling into the toilet.

The bout of nausea subsided as Draco ran a bath, tipping in the different potions that nestled on the side of the tub.  The soothing scents of lavender and jasmine quickly filled the room as he placed a continuous heating charm on the water.  Slowly sinking into the bath, surrounded by the bubbles and warmth, he was able to finally relax. Tilting his head back, Draco let out a small sigh, thankful that this dreadful day was finally over.

\--

Draco must have drifted to sleep, coaxed by the calming potions and the steam that still radiated from the tub, because he woke up to the feeling of his head resting softly against bare chest, two arms wrapped carefully around his naked waist. 

He was no longer alone in the bath.

Draco leaned back, enjoying the feeling of the hot water and the hot body surrounding him. It felt safe, secure. 

"You did so well today, Draco," the man cooed in his ear.  His face flushed as the warm breath tickled his neck. 

"I'm just glad it's over,” Draco replied, relaxing even further into the comforting chest behind him.

He looked over to the window, catching the slightly setting sun. "You're home early, Harry" he mumbled.  

"I wanted to be here, with you," he answered simply.  "We take care of each other, remember?" 

Draco smiled softly. 

"Yes. We take care of each other."

  
  



	2. Not a Prisoner

_ Twelve Months Earlier _

The first time Harry had seen Draco — _ shaking, shattered, withdrawn _ _ — _ had been at the trials.

Harry bellowed and pled, begged whoever would listen not to take them; not to take Draco.  All he could do for them, for  _ him _ , was to repeat over and over how the Malfoys sitting in front of him were victims of their own circumstances.

They were trapped, harnessed to their home much like Dean and Luna were locked in the darkness for so many months.  Draco could look out the windows at least, but he couldn't see the sunlight, not really. He couldn't see the sunrise in the morning, couldn't breathe the fresh air, only saw the sun lower deeper and deeper into the horizon, the thick darkness rolling around him in waves. Draco couldn't escape, nor could his mother, even if they had wanted to.  It was either endure, or welcome the emptiness of death.

Harry reminded his captivated audience of the Wizengamot, that Draco  _ and _ Narcissa had both welcomed the chance of the void when they  _ saved him, _ when they saved the great Harry Potter, the Chosen One, Vanquisher of the Dark Lord.

For once, the black-haired man was glad he held this much power, this much influence over the magical world as he watched the jury, mouths agape, slowly and surely raise their hands towards acquittal.

It was then, only then, when he knew they were safe, that Harry allowed himself to look at Draco. What he saw made his heart stop.

The man in front of him didn’t look like the Draco he knew at all.

He was expecting the same haughty boy that had repeatedly teased him, lips in a snarl as he refused to acknowledge Harry’s presence.  He was expecting perfectly combed hair, perfectly alabaster skin, perfectly straight robes.

What he saw made his heart jump inside of his ribs. Thick dark circles below unfocused grey eyes, pronounced so strongly against pale, almost translucent skin.  Hair, curled and coated by sweat gathering on his forehead. Chapped lips, almost white as he continued to pull at them with his teeth. Draco’s hand was shaking as he reached out to grasp his returned wand, securely clutching the bench below him with the other.  His eyes closed as he held the hawthorn wood, and Harry could see his chest heaving slowly, deeply.

He knew that look; he knew it all too well. Waking up from his nightly terrors, feeling the slick veil of sweat covering his body, the thin sheets on his bed suddenly feeling like the hard lid of the coffins he had to witness every day for the past two weeks.

It took every bit of his willpower he had left, not to run up and wrap the frail man tightly in his arms.  He wanted to hold him, run his hands calmingly along his soft arms, whisper soothing words into his ear.

_ I've got you. _

_ You're safe. _

_ It will be ok. _

Instead, he just watched, his feet stuck in hard cement, as they stood.  Draco followed Narcissa into the hallway, turning around to nod appreciatively at Harry before exiting out of sight.

_ It will be ok _ , he thought to himself as the rest of the room prepared for the next trial.  After all, they weren't going to Azkaban. Draco wouldn't be imprisoned in a dark cell, surrounded by the haunting bars of desolation.  They would be able to go home, return to the Manor where they could put this all behind them. The  _ Manor?   _ Harry shook his head vigorously as he realized what a crippling path Draco was headed down.  He thought of Draco, sitting at the same dining room table, unable to not remember what Lord Voldemort looked like sitting across from him.  Not being able to forget the slithering sounds of Nagini as she snaked from room to room. Still hearing the calls, the cries of his schoolmates and the wandmaker from the dark cells.

He couldn't go back there.  Back to that prison that was his childhood home.  Harry wouldn't let him.

"Malfoy," he cried out, running out of the chamber and bursting into the hallway.  His eyes searched every inch of the corridor, hoping for the glance of blond hair against dark robes.

Instead, he saw Narcissa, fixed protectively in front of a solid wood door.  He ran to her, eyes wild, as she reached out her arms. It took Harry a moment to get over the sudden confusion. Her arms reached out, not as if to hug Harry as a friend or parent would, but to halt him in his place.

"You can't go in there," she said, the hitch of panic clear in her tone.

"Mrs. Malfoy, I need to see him, I need to talk to him," Harry rambled, his panic matching hers for entirely different reasons.  Narcissa was trying to keep him out, when all he wanted was to get in. "I won't hurt him," he tried to explain, hoping that she would understand that he wanted to help, wanted to comfort her son, wanted to protect him from the evils he was forced to endure.  

He knew they had their differences; hell, Harry had practically ripped Draco in half during sixth-year.  But the war had a funny way of changing one's perspective. Having lost so many he loved, Harry didn't want to spend his days still holding childhood grudges and misplaced anger.  He needed her to understand. She lowered her arms, but did not move, did not budge.

"You will if you go in there, Harry," her voice shaking as she watched the confusion ripple across his face.

Harry stepped back, his eyes imploring for an explanation.  Narcissa sighed, rubbing her hands roughly against her hips as if hoping to remove some trace of unpleasantness from her skin.

"Thank you for what you said in there," Draco’s mother began slowly, lifting her gaze to meet Harry's stare.  He watched her silently, hoping she would continue to fill the void. "I didn't make my choice to protect you," she continued, her eyes now dropping to the floor, unable to stare at deep emerald as she continued.  "I stared death in the face to protect my son, as any mother would. As your mother did." 

Her voice hitched slightly, her hands gripping the flimsy lace of her dress. Harry felt his throat tightening at the memory of his mother, the one he had watched through Snape's memories.  Her lifeless body in a heap in front of his crib. She hadn't hesitated. Lily had leapt into the green light, protecting him from the swift impact of the deadly spell. Harry swallowed hard as a single tear rolled swiftly down one cheek. They were both held hostage, held by their surroundings choices.  Now they were held by their grief, by their guilt.

"You can't return to the Manor," Harry blurted, wiping the tears swiftly off of his flushed face.

Narcissa met his eyes, a forced smile on her face.

"We are not.  The Ministry made sure of that," she answered blandly.

_ Of course they couldn't _ , Harry realized suddenly.  It made sense. The Ministry would want to seize Malfoy Manor, inspect it for any dark magic that Voldemort could have left behind.  It was possible the home would be condemned, depending on how much magic still lurked behind those walls.

"Where will you go?" the former Gryffindor asked, holding his breath.

Narcissa closed her eyes, letting out a deep sigh as she replied.

"I'm returning to my family’s estate in France," she responded, shaking her head slightly.  " _ Draco,"  _ she cut, "has decided to remain here.  We are on our way to procure him a new home."  Her lips pursed together.

_ He’ll be alone. He can’t deal with this alone. _

"He can stay with me," he exclaimed, his pitch higher than normal, the blood pulsing rapidly in his veins.

_ What?  What did I just do? _ Harry thought to himself, mind racing.

The loud noise of the lavatory door swinging open caused Harry to jerk.  His hand grasped at his wand as the other flailed to protect his chest. His knees buckled into an instinctual stance as he positioned himself to strike.

Draco stepped out, his eyes brimming with puffy redness.  With a gasp, he surveyed the situation in front of him and reached for his own wand.  He didn’t brandish it, however.

Harry’s wand wasn't pointed at him; it wasn’t pointed at Narcissa, either.  It was pointed at the gold hinges on the frame of the heavy door, as if the scraps of metal had somehow threatened him, opposed to just swinging open and closed.

Harry stared, wide-eyed as the sweat built across the brim of his scalp.  He clung to the rich holly of his wand as if the whole world were about to collapse around him.

Draco stood still, holding the door open with his right hand as his thumbs coaxed his wand with the left.  It was if he recognized the situation; recognized the panic in Harry’s eyes, the tremble in his hands. He waited with baited breath until Harry pulled back, lowering his wand slowly to the comfort of his hip.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, wiping beads of sweat from his brow.  His eyes cast downward as his hand continued to clench around the familiar wood.

"Don't apologize," Draco responded sternly as he carefully released the door, hand slowly returning to its pocket.

Harry looked up, meeting worrisome grey eyes with his own.  His breath hitched slightly, as Draco reflected the same recognition of understanding that Harry had felt in the courtroom.

"Draco," Narcissa stepped to the side, finally releasing her protective stance, "Harry here has invited you to stay. With him."

A flush ran across Harry's face as he rubbed the back of his neck.  He felt uncomfortable, hearing the words come out like that.  _ With him. _  It wouldn't be  _ with him. _  It's not as if they'd be  _ living together.   _ Simply that they'd be sharing a roof.  A kitchen. A bathroom.

He hadn't thought too far ahead, apparently.   _ What's new, _ he thought to himself as he pressed forward.

"Yes, well, I've got a flat," he started.  

Harry had purchased it the day after the war ended and his true home of Hogwarts was destroyed.  He chose a location at random, wanting to be surrounded by Muggle London and very little else. He felt at ease, not being pointed at, or worshiped as The Boy Who Lived Twice.  He relished the feeling of not relying on his wand to get through the day. Life in the Muggle world was simple; it was peaceful.

"Why?" Draco asked.  

Harry was expecting a snarl, a scoff, a biting retort.  Instead, Draco's voice sounded curious, soft and exploratory, as if he really was confused by the invitation. This confusion made it impossible for Harry to have a clear answer, his words stuck in his throat. Those words were said out of pure impulse.  The drive to protect Draco was as strong as the desire to protect himself. He shifted from side to side as words crashed around inside his head.

_ You'll be safe there. _

_ No one will hurt you. _

"I've got an extra room," Harry offered, trying to sound casual as he landed on a basic truth.  

Draco paused, thoughtfully biting his bottom lip.  Harry could see faint lines of blood where he had chewed a little too deeply in the courtroom. He felt the urge to hug the blond, to wrap him up in a blanket and tuck him away, where no one could harm him again. Instead, he breathed inward, clenching his fists to remove the tension that was gathering in his chest.

"Very well, then," the former Slytherin responded with a small shrug. "Owl me the address."

Harry exhaled, his hand loosening its grip on his wand. He nodded quickly, offering a small smile to Narcissa, before he turned on the spot and walked away.

\--

Harry was relieved to see Neville, sitting at their usual table in the back of Marigolds Tea Shoppe.  The little bistro was tucked in the corner of Carkitt Market, just behind Cogg and Bell Clockmakers. The shopkeeper minded her own, and the patrons were few on a weekday afternoon.  The dim windows and fragrant aromas of herbs and spices allowed the two war veterans a cozy moment of privacy.

Neville had acquired an apprenticeship in the Mind Healing department at St. Mungos only three days after the war ended.  He had spent most of his summers there, tending to his parents and trying different remedies, and the Head Healer had personally written his letter of recommendation.  They had accepted him quickly, even without his required N.E.W.T.s. 

His hands were nervously tapping the table when Harry approached, cradling two piping-hot cups of black tea.  His eyes searched rapidly, relaxing quickly as he saw the large smile draped across Harry’s lips.

“It worked, then?” Neville asked, the air of hope palpable in his voice.

Harry nodded, placing both cups on the table and settling across from his friend.  They clinked glasses in cheers.

“Well, tell me what happened?”

Harry shared the details of the trial, starting with his speech, the anxiety he held while he watched tepid hands rise across the Wizengamot.  He shared how Draco had looked, ghastly and pale, just as he had in sixth-year.

“I invited him to live with me,” Harry blurted, shoving his head into his hands in embarrassment.

Neville stared openly before releasing a hearty chuckle.

“Wait, what?” he asked, unable to keep the broad smile off his face.

“He just looked — ” Harry started blubbering, “and they couldn’t go back to the Manor, and his mom is moving to France, and — ” He scratched his forehead right above his scar before making eye contact with Neville again.  “He needed a flat.”

Neville leaned back in his chair.  He knew Harry’s tendencies to swoop in and be the hero.  Still, this was Malfoy they were talking about, and Neville could instinctually tell there was something else driving this decision.

“Harry, he could have gotten his own flat,” Neville said calmly, before taking a sip of his lukewarm tea.

Harry rubbed the back of his head.  Narcissa had said they were on their way to acquire one for him.  It wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford to purchase one. So why had he felt so compelled in that moment to make such a rash decision?

He thought back to that moment.  He had pictured Draco, always surrounded by his Slytherin friends or his overbearing parents.  Pictured Draco, currently ostracized from the one world he knew, left in a blank room, dark grey eyes filled with pain and loneliness.

_He can't be_ _alone_.   _It's horrible to be alone, to deal with this by yourself._

Harry took a deep breath, trying to pull some of his Gryffindor courage before he confided in his friend.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

Neville nodded approvingly, as if he was waiting for this answer.

A silence surrounded the two, mirrored in the tiny restaurant.  Neville waited patiently, feeling that Harry had more to tell. His eyebrow arched encouragingly as he stared calmly into green eyes.

“I, erm — ” Harry spoke softly, twining his hands together.  “I had an ‘episode’.”

He didn’t have to tell Neville what his episodes were.  After all, it was Neville that had found him after the first one.  His mind flashed back to just weeks before, his first morning in his new home.  Hermione had been trying the Floo for hours before Neville forced his way through the wards, and had found Harry curled in a bundle of nerves on the empty kitchen floor. It was Neville who had wrapped him in the thick quilt that now always rested on the foot of his bed.  They had talked late into the night about the months leading up to the war, how Harry had faced Voldemort in his dreams more times than he could count, how the saviour willingly waited to die.

Ever since that day, Neville had dutifully checked in on Harry, and arranged for him to visit the Mind Healers on a weekly basis.

“There was a loud bang when Malfoy opened the door, and I just — ” Harry’s hands were trembling as he recounted the events.  “I pulled my wand on them, oh Merlin, I couldn’t help it.” He closed his eyes in shame.  “It took me forever to lower it.”

Neville reached out his hand, grasping Harry’s.

“Harry,” he said, soothingly.

“I know, Nev.” Harry had heard it already.   _ It’s natural, _ Neville would say.   _ It’s not uncommon for people who have gone through what we have. _  The truth was that it didn’t matter what his friend said.  It wouldn’t make him feel any better about how his post-war stress chose to hiss.

“So, what did Malfoy say?” Neville inquired, feeling that a change of conversation might be in order.

“Well, she wouldn’t let me talk to him at first,” he sighed deeply.

“Who wouldn’t?” Neville asked.

“Mrs. Malfoy.  She just stood there, blocking the door, while he was in the loo.”

Neville nodded, cocking his head slightly in thought.  After a moment, Neville’s eyes widened slightly.

“She wouldn’t let you talk to him, or she wouldn’t let you in.”

Harry recounted the events.  “She blocked the door. I told her I wouldn’t hurt Draco, but she still wouldn’t let me in.”  He folded his hands in his lap. “But then I cast my wand up anyway.”  _ So she might have been right. _

Neville sat back, drinking a sip of his tea as he contemplated.  After several moments of silence, Neville placed his mug back on the round wooden table.

“So, when Draco emerged, she let you talk to him.”

“Yes.  Well, first the, uh, episode, then the question,” Harry answered, his hands tensing into fists.

“And what did he say?”

Harry bit his bottom lip before stating, “Yes.”

“Sounds like he doesn’t want to live alone either, then.”

Harry tapped his fingers nervously on the table.  Draco had seemed confused at first, which was understandable given their previous relationship.  In the end, however, he had almost looked relieved. Neville held up his mug. 

“Well then, cheers to your new flatmate!”

Harry smiled, clinking their cups together.  Perhaps his impulsive nature wasn’t as bad as he had thought.


	3. Not A Martyr

Draco vividly remembered the first time he heard Harry scream.

Draco had lived in the flat for five weeks, and had only seen Harry’s bedroom three times.  It wasn’t as if the place was so expansive; their shared quarters consisted of just the two bedrooms, a shared bath, kitchen and a sitting area.  He had gotten his first glance of it during the initial tour, briefly catching glimpses of the wall that separated their two rooms, the cluttered desk, the maroon quilt at the end of the four-poster bed.  The second glance was when Harry lent Draco the latest issue of  _ Quidditch Weekly _ . 

He had made himself at home in every aspect of the flat, except Harry’s bedroom, of course.  The kitchen stored his collection of low-ball brandy glasses; the shower held his enormous quantities of hair products.  The lined shelves of mahogany wood in the sitting room had allowed Draco to store his many texts, along with pictures of his mother who had settled nicely in France.  

Surprisingly, Harry hadn’t stopped him.  Draco had expected at least a comment or two as he carried in trunk after trunk, most full to the brim with various potions and wardrobe essentials (one could never have too many waistcoats). Not even when he loaded the empty shelves with his books on potions and charms, the dozens of pictures he had of his mother, his father and Malfoy Manor.  He had simply smiled, admiring how the peacocks in one of the photos strutted across the grounds over and over again.

The first few days were spent in silence.  Potter wasn’t set for Auror duty until the fall, waiting to go through training with Ron.  Hermione was returning to Hogwarts for her eighth year. Returning for eighth year wasn’t even close to being an option for Draco; while he wasn’t directly admitted into Azkaban, he was under a strict probation for the remainder of the year. The Ministry had even left in the option to renew the probationary terms, should they find the former Death Eater’s behavior  _ unsatisfactory _ .

Despite the fact that both men were home, sharing a flat that was smaller than the Manor ballroom in total, it took five days before they breached from deep conversations like  _ Weather’s nice today, eh?  _ and  _ Did you want beans on your toast? _ to riveting discussions, like  _ Owl from your mum, how’s she?  _ and  _ Do you think the Cannons have a chance this season? _

These dullard conversations were in sharp contrast to the scream he heard that night.

He’d heard Potter yell before.  He’d heard him snarl, and growl in anger, his words sometimes leaking like poison from his lips.  The sound of the spell, echoing throughout the chamber as Draco’s skin ripped apart from the force of Harry’s magic

Draco had screamed then.  He had writhed, in pain and terror, as his blood pooled around him, emptying his veins.

The shrill sound he heard in the middle of the night however was nothing in comparison to that day.

Harry screamed as if he felt the pain of a thousand  _ Sectumsempras _ coursing beneath his skin.  The sound propagated in waves through the flat, echoing in every corner, vibrating around Draco’s ears. In an instant he was awake, yanking his sheets around him as the screams continued.

_ “NO!”  _ The words were sharp against the dark night, the volume increasing rapidly.  “NO! YOU CAN’T! DON’T!”

Draco’s heart was beating rapidly, his eyes darting towards the thin blank wall that separated the two rooms.  He gripped his wand, clinging to the weight as he forced himself out of bed. Thousands of thoughts were running through his head, but the strongest one prevailed:  _ Potter needs me. _

He gathered all his strength, turning the handle on his securely locked door, when the screaming abruptly stopped. Draco’s heart was racing as he paused, listening for the slightest sound of movement as he  carefully peeked his head into the darkened hallway.

Then it suddenly stopped. The deafening silence was so much worse than the blood-curdling screams.  No noise meant the possibility that Draco was too late. The thought barely entered his mind before he was running, dashing towards the door, practically ripping it off the hinges.

“ _ Lumos!”  _ Draco shouted, pointing his wand in the blackened bedroom. He scanned the walls quickly, preparing himself for the danger that was obviously lurking in the darkness.

Instead, he saw Harry sitting upright on his bed.  He was alone, and to Draco’s relief, he looked physically unharmed.

Draco exhaled, relieved that the Boy Who Lived was, as far as he could tell, still alive.  He stepped cautiously into the room, scanning the walls with the light from his wand. His heart was pounding deep in his chest, but he tried to not show his panic.  His steps, on the other hand, were carefully slow and calculated.

His eyes then focused closely on the minute movements of the man on the bed.  Harry’s knees were pushed tightly against his bare chest. His arms were wrapped around his knees, fingers wrapped around his wand so tightly that they were practically white against the dark wood.

Upon closer inspection, Harry’s face gleamed with sweat, hair matted against his face.  Draco could make out the vigorous trembling in his calves. All of this was nothing in comparison to his eyes.  The blackness pooled so forcefully that only the hint of bordering green could be seen in the harsh wand light. His mouth was agape, panting wildly as Harry forced himself to breathe, just breathe.

Draco slowly sat on the edge of the bed; he had seen traces of this trauma that day at the Ministry, the door abruptly opening and Potter reacting.  It wasn’t the first time he had witnessed this. His father had similar reactions after his return from Azkaban the first time. Who knew how his father was waring, locked up again behind those treacherous bars.

Draco kept his distance, waiting patiently from his perch.  He watched carefully for signs that Harry was returning to the present, to the room, to him.  He stilled, hoping for a glimpse of the fierce grip of fingers to dissipate. He breathed slowly as the tension released, Harry’s arms drifting to his sides, his legs extending towards the end of the mattress.

Only when those eyes returned to their normal balance of black and green did Draco speak.

“Harry,” he started, his voice steady.  

He hoped the use of his proper name would keep the man grounded in the moment. Draco breathed a sigh of relief when the eyes trained on his own.  They looked focused, if not overly alert, but at least the panic had subsided for the moment.

“Harry,” he began again, voice calm.  “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Silence filled the air as Draco waited patiently for an answer to his question.  Harry continued to stare into his grey eyes and swallowed sharply before replying.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse from the harsh screams.  “I usually put up a silencing charm. Must’ve forgotten.” Harry ran the back of his hand against his forehead, wiping away the slick sheen of sweat.

Draco closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly.  He had lived in the flat for over a month; had Harry been going through this, every night, while he himself tossed and turned unknowingly next door?

He wanted to shake him, to hold him, to make him talk about his nightmares.  Draco had to physically force his hands into the mattress to stop himself from grabbing Harry and pulling him close against his chest.  It was how his mother held his father, after his dreams would turn into darkness, the pale fingers of Dementors closing around his throat as he slept.  Draco had watched one evening, through a tiny crack in the door, as his mother held and rocked her love, murmuring soft praises until the panic passed.

He knew Harry wouldn’t want that.  They didn’t have that level of trust; not yet, at least.

Instead, Draco carefully shifted, positioning himself closer to Harry’s knees.  He extended a hand out, placing it near Potter’s own.  _ It’s there if you need it, _ he hoped his movements showed.

“Harry,” the name slipping easily off his tongue this time as he spoke softly.  “You don’t have to go through this alone.” 

He watched carefully for signs of hesitation as he slid his hand closer, pressing the side of his wrist against the cool sheets surrounding Harry’s leg. Harry shuddered slightly at the contact, but didn’t move.  He glanced down at the hand before his bloodshot eyes returned to Draco’s.

A moment of silence passed before Draco tried again, encouraged by the acceptance of his presence.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Harry’s eyes darkened as fear rippled across his face.  He forced another swallow, before clearing his throat.

“Yes.”

Draco nodded, pleased that Harry trusted him at least this much, to unload some of the burdens he held inside.

“Great.  I’ll make us some tea.”

\--

Draco returned with two steaming mugs of tea. He handed Harry his favorite, a large black cup with snitches that circled quickly around the rim.

“May I?” 

He motioned to the head of the mattress.  Part of what had always comforted his father was the presence, the warm touch of another person as he divulged the horrors that hid behind the steep walls of Azkaban. Harry’s eyes widened in confusion, but he shifted slightly to the left, allowing Draco to rest easily next to him.  Leaning forward, Draco draped the heavy quilt hastily over both of their legs. Then he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Draco surmised that at least twenty minutes had passed, both men slowly drinking their tea, before Harry set his down on his nightstand.  Draco didn’t mind. After all that Harry did for him and his mother, he’d wait all night if he had to.

“I have nightmares, sometimes,” Harry spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Draco simply sat still, his hand pressed softly against Potter’s leg.  He bit his lip, trying to stop the words  _ No shit, we all do _ from escaping his mouth. 

“I used to have them, when, you know, we were linked.  I could see what  _ he _ was doing, sometimes.”

Draco nodded slightly.  His mother had told him this; how Harry was a Horcrux, how he was hit with the killing curse; how she lied to Voldemort to get back to her son.  Draco had witnessed enough of the Dark Lord’s horrific dealings in person. He wondered which ones Harry had been privy to as well. 

Did he watch ­­­­­­their Muggle Studies professor get gobbled up by that fucking snake?  Or when he tortured Ollivander, Dean and Luna in the dungeons? Did he see when Draco received his Dark Mark, wand impregnating the pale skin on the forearm with the black magic?  He shuddered, glancing at the marked skin that was now pressed against Harry’s white sheets.

\--

They had broached the subject during the second week of Draco’s stay.  He was reading a book, a Muggle fiction tale , no less, when the long sleeve of his shirt had ridden up slightly as he turned the page.

“You don’t have to hide it,” Harry had pointed towards Draco’s arm from his position on the couch.  “It’s not like I don’t know you have it.”

Draco set his jaw, his lips forced into a straight line.  The last person he had wanted to talk about his biggest regret was Harry bloody Potter.

“Malfoy, it’s fine.  I know you didn’t want…that,” Harry had murmured, turning the page of his stupid magazine in his stupid short-sleeve shirt on that stupid warm day.

He didn’t need Harry fucking Potter to confirm what he knew.  Of course, he didn’t want to be branded, to be marked for the remainder of his life at the ripe age of sixteen.  He didn’t need Harry, his current flat mate, his almost friendly acquaintance, to tell him it was ok, that he understood that Draco didn’t have a choice, never had a choice, in any of it. 

“It’s too hot to keep your arms covered,” Harry’d added.  Draco had noticed that the heat had caused his face to flush slightly.

“My arms are one of my best features,” Draco had quipped, spelling the sleeves to shrink to where they sat right below his shoulders.

“Mmm,” Harry had said with an absent shrug.  The heat was obviously getting to him, the flush now centered above his cheeks.

Draco had made a point to wear short-sleeved robes the remainder of the summer.

\--

Even now, as he sat on Harry’s bed, he wore sleeveless robes, feet bare as he felt the silken sheets below his heels.  He felt his arm press softly against Harry’s own. Maybe Harry had seen. Maybe Harry had watched, pinned to his cot, in his tent, wherever they bloody were that year, and watched through Voldemort's eyes.  Watched as Draco sat, pinned to his chair by his  _ loving father, _ unable to say no, unable to scream, unable to do anything at all.

He shuddered again, adjusting the thick quilt to cover his cold toes. 

“It was about Lavender,” Harry choked. 

Draco knew that name.  He knew all the victim’s names, writing them down one by one with his black quill as he awaited trial.  Sending whispers of apologies to the spirit world, atoning for his actions that night. 

He had written a similar one for his Headmaster.  The words,  _ Albus Dumbledore died because of you _ , written in tiny scrawling letters over twelve sheets of parchment.  It still didn’t feel like he’d written it enough, accepted it enough. It was one thing for his fate to affect his own; the fact that it affected others,  _ killed others _ , was often more than he could handle.

_ It wasn’t your fault.  It was mine. All mine, _ Draco painfully reminded himself.

He pushed down those thoughts.  He’d have time to focus, to reflect on how each of his actions had changed the world around him.  Tonight, he needed to just focus on Harry.

He lifted his hand, wrist down, and rested it on Potter’s knee.  His thumb began to rub small circles against the  _ so soft _ sheets.  He glanced at Harry, breathing in a small gasp as he locked grey eyes with green. 

They stayed like that for a moment, Harry staring at Draco, Draco gently rubbing against Harry’s thigh, before he spoke again.

“I couldn’t help her, Draco.  I watched her fall. Every night I watch her fall.  Or George. Or Tonks. I watch them all fall, and I can’t help.  I’m frozen in place and I can’t help.”

In an instant, Draco’s hand left Harry’s thigh, swooping upwards to grab the man by the shoulder, and pulled him into his chest.  It was instinctual, his need to hold Harry while Harry cried, fat tears falling rapidly from his face that left large spots on the thin fabric of Draco’s robes. 

His thumb began its circling motion once more, this time on the taut skin surrounding Harry’s shoulder blades, the other hand reaching up to rub softly against Potter’s cheek.  He wiped away some of the larger droplets, catching them in his palm, absorbing them into his own skin.

Draco began to rock, slowly back and forth, cradling Harry’s head in his own hands as he moved.  He felt Harry, felt his chest convulsing as he released his anguish, their bodies swaying like a buoy in a silent sea. 

He continued to rock, even as he felt a rough hand reach and press hard into Draco’s clothed chest.  Harry’s hand continued to search, continued to drag as he lifted Draco’s robe up before grasping tightly against the warm comfort of his hip, skin on skin.  It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. 

The closeness of the touch was just unexpected.  Draco hated being touched when he felt like this, felt out of control, out of power, out of choices.  He yearned to escape, to bury into a dark hole and not return. The last thing he wanted during his attacks was company, let alone people touching him, rocking him, stroking him. 

However, Potter was not cowering in a darkened corner.  His father had never wanted to be alone either, spending so long in isolation himself.  Maybe that was a difference; they had both been alone, unable to reach out and talk, and touch, and be heard by anyone else.  Sure, Harry had Ron and Hermione that last year, but in the forest, the forest where he  _ died _ , he had been completely and utterly alone. 

It was while Draco was pondering this, running his fingers softly through Harry’s hair as his thumb continued to rub soothingly, that he heard the soft sounds of Potter’s snores.  A soft smile rested on his face, as he allowed himself to return to sleep, the Boy Who Lived still curled in his arms. 

Their nightly routine began that day, eight weeks after the war, five weeks after their unspoken truce.  Draco would make them both a cup of tea before bed, heading to their separate rooms. Draco always made sure the doors remained cracked.  As soon as he heard Harry stir, begin to toss, begin to whimper, Draco would remove himself from his own  _ super shitty in comparison _ sheets and crawl into Harry’s bed.  He’d collect Potter in his arms, rocking him softly. 

Sometimes they would talk; Harry would share stories from his search, stories from the tent, stories from when he was on the run.  Draco would share about his own seventh year, aligning himself with the Carrows for protection, able to use his angle to protect the innocent first and second years from taking the brunt of the punishment.

Sometime they would just drift, both reflecting on their shared pasts and divided journeys, until Harry would still in his arms.  The soft snores became like his mother’s lullaby, luring him quickly into his own dreams.


	4. Not A Hostage

The first time Harry kissed Draco, he was crying. 

Harry really hoped that wasn’t a trend, that all of his first kisses would be so... _ wet. _

It happened so quickly, and yet Harry felt like it had been coming for weeks.  That their two mouths moulding together was inevitable.

That watching Draco fall apart was inevitable.  That Harry wanted to putt him back together was inevitable.

Harry knew he was good at doing that; putting other people back together.  Putting himself back together had proven more difficult.

Most of their days together were spent in silence.  They only talked when darkness surrounded them, when they didn’t have to look into each others eyes, when they didn’t have to recognize each other’s thoughts in their faces.  The silence ensured they never spoke about what they did in bed. Harry wasn’t sure what they were doing in bed.

He thought about their talk the night before.  Harry had gone to sleep, curled tight, wand gripped in his hand, and like each night previous, Harry woke with a thick quilt wrapped around him.  With Draco’s arms wrapped around him, holding him in the pitch-black room.

\--

“Was I loud?”

“No louder than yesterday.” Draco had murmured as he ran his hand through Harry’s locks.

Harry had swallowed tightly.  He didn’t want to be a bother, a pain in the arse, certainly not with his roommate/past-enemy/almost-friend.  Yet, he also didn’t want to lose this, the calmness he felt when he was cradled securely in Draco’s arms. 

He didn't want to ruin it. But he had to know - had to make sure - that he knew what this was. If it was anything at all.

“Draco,” Harry had started, his voice weak and muffled from the large quilt. “Thank you for this.  It - it really helps.”

Draco had breathed out sharply.  “I know, Harry. It helps me, too.”

Harry sat up, removing himself from the coil of Draco’s arms.

“Think you’re the only one with nightmares?  I can just put up a better silencing charm.” Draco smirked. 

“What are they about?  If you, erm, if you want to talk about it.”

He could feel Draco’s arms stiffen around him, and the calming touch in his hair disappeared instantly.

“They’re a lot like yours, I’d guess.  Full of the Dark Lord and destruction. Full of death.”  

Harry had nodded into the warmth of Draco’s chest.  He focused on the shallow movements of Draco’s breath, of the stillness in the room.  His mind wandered to happier days, the smell of grass, the glint of gold, the wind in his hair as the two seekers whipped around the pitch.  

Harry awoke the next morning, the glint of gold from the snitch replaced with the glint from the sun.  He forced himself to remain still and pliant as he felt the familiar thrum of Draco’s chest rising and falling beneath his head.  He felt Draco swept his hair gently to one side as he slowly disentangled limbs, peeling himself from Harry’s bed. Draco readjusted the quilt on Harry’s chest before sneaking out the door and returning to his own sheets.  

\--

The magic of their nights disappeared with the sun.  

Their days revolved around a strict routine that was never officially written out, but was still followed to a tee.  Draco made them each a morning coffee, Harry’s with three creams and two sugars, Draco’s with only the tiniest splash of milk.  Then Draco would usually go for a run, circling the wide expanse of their neighborhood, pushing one foot in front of the other. Harry would spend his mornings listening to the wireless.  They’d spend the rest of their afternoons in comfortable quiet, Draco on the thick armchair reading, and Harry fiddling with his drawings or jotting down out long passages in his scrawled handwriting. 

The silence during the day was cathartic.  It was the one place where he didn’t have to deal with the concerned looks.  The one place where he didn’t have to hear, “Are you ok?”

No.  He wasn’t ok.  Of course he wasn’t.  He had  _ died _ .  Twice.  And, honestly, the dying had been the easy part.  

It was watching everyone else die that had been hard.  Was still hard. His mind was a carousel of death, lifeless eyes, open mouths spinning in and out of focus.  Last laughs, last screams echoing in his ears. 

They cooked dinner together every night, the only noise in the clanking of silverware and the occasional, “grab a ladle for me, will you?” or “needs a tad more cumin.”  

It only took a moment for Draco to shatter. 

“Shit!” Draco cried out as he watched the metal lid of the salt fall directly into his pasta, followed by a vast amount of tiny white crystals.  “Fuck! It’s fucking ruined!”

Harry watched, eyes wide, as Draco grabbed the pan from the cooktop and threw the entirety of its contents into the bin.  Draco gripped his golden locks angrily as he crumpled to the kitchen floor.

“Hey,” Harry said, attempting to sound soothing, the same way Draco’s voice lulled him back to sleep each evening.  His hand stretched out, fingers almost touching the soft fabric of Draco’s jumper before they were swiped away.

“Don’t touch me, Potter,” Draco grunted, pushing his face down into his bent knees, his hands clenched in fistfulls of hair.

“Ok.” Harry winced at the sharp ‘P’ of his last name.  “It’s just noodles, Draco. I can boil some more.”

“Leave me alone,” his voice came out muffled, softened by the layers of fabric that surrounded his face as Draco curled into a ball. Harry could see Draco’s shoulders rise and fall erratically, the sounds of sniffling barely audible from where Harry stood.

His feet felt as if blocks of ice were fusing him to the floor.  He didn’t understand how something as small as over-salted pasta could result in something so big.  Harry’s hands were trembling with want; wanting to lift him up off the floor, wanting to run his own fingers soothingly through Draco’s hair.   

He thought back to the tent, when Ron had left, abandoning them both.  He had held Hermione in his arms as she cried. He had twirled her around the empty room, hoping to distract her from the horrors that waited just outside its walls, the horrors her true love had just walked right back into.

“I can’t leave,” Harry responded, his words choked.  

“Yes, you can.  Do what you’re told for once in your life.”

Harry felt like he had been slapped against the jaw.  

_ Do what I’m told?   _

His head was filled with Vernon, slamming the door shut, screaming  _ be quiet, not a breath, not a peep.   _ The Ministry, forcing him to participate in the Goblet tournaments against his pleadings.  The prophecy, throwing his life onto the sharp edge of a blade. Voldemort, literally telling him to go to the Forest and die at his feet. 

All Harry ever did was what he was told.  It’s what kept him safe, kept him alive, even when he wasn’t supposed to be.  

“Draco,” he started.

Draco slammed his fists down before wrenching himself up off the hard floor.  His body leered forward, face only inches away from Harry’s. 

“Damnit, Potter.  Do I need to teach you how to listen?” Draco growled. 

Harry stared at the hard clench of Draco’s fingers.  He flashed back to that morning when those same fingers had been tender, comforting, as they carded through Harry’s hair.

His focus locked on the thunderstorm brewing behind Draco’s grey eyes.  Harry could see the pressure building so strong, that it was almost out of control.  

“I’m not leaving you like this,” Harry gasped.  And then he did the only thing he could do.

He leaned in and kissed Draco Malfoy. 

He had wanted to kiss him for weeks; for years, if he was really being honest.  He had wanted to cover him with deep, lustful kisses every night when Draco climbed into his bed, all warmth and limbs and muscle, and pepper his face with soft, languid kisses every morning when they woke, tangled in thick sheets, eyes puffy from deep sleep.

Harry hoped that the kiss would soften Draco, reminding him of their tender nights.  Reminding him that Harry was there; there to help him when the bottom opened up and the rains came. 

Instead of dampening the storm, Draco turned into a full-blown hurricane. 

“What the fuck, Potter? What about leave me alone did you not understand?” Draco bit, his voice echoing through the tiny kitchen.   

Harry could see the wetness under his puffy eyes and feel the harsh tremble in Draco’s breath.  Draco sighed heavily one last time before he left the kitchen, and left Harry alone with the mess.

That night, Harry’s dreams were filled with lifeless bodies and blank faces.  He woke, not to the warm embrace of the quilt and his roommate, but to a bleeding lip from chewing on it too hard, from trying to silence his screams.

\--

Harry met with Neville the next morning at their spot.

“I kissed Draco,” he spat, the second he saw his friend approach the table..

“Merlin, Harry, I haven’t even sat down yet,” Neville said, grasping their cups of tea. He took his time opening the tea bag and squeezing in a slice of lemon before he glanced back up at Harry.

“Okay, Hare.  What happened?”

“Well, it all started when Draco flipped out over ruining the pasta.”

“What do you mean he ‘flipped out’?”

Harry breathed out sharply through his nose before recalling the previous night’s events.

“And then I kissed him, and he stormed off.  I ruined everything.”

Neville strained his tea bag against his spoon.  He took a sip before he said, “He asked you to leave him alone, Harry.  Why didn’t you respect that?”

“Respect it?  The last thing someone in that condition needs is to be left alone!  You didn’t see him, Nev. He was crumpled on the floor. He was crying.  He looked- he looked like he did that day. You know? That day in the bathroom when I-”

Harry couldn’t finish.  His lip was trembling as he tried to bite back tears.

“I just wanted to help, Nev.  The way I couldn’t then.”

“Harry, I want you to listen to me.  Draco had a panic attack. It’s not surprising, given what he’s gone through.”

Neville looked sternly at Harry when he started to open his mouth.  He shut it again.

“Remember that day at the ministry?  When his mom wouldn’t let you in to see him?”

Harry nodded quickly.  

“Well, that was for a reason.  Draco doesn’t want to be seen, and especially not touched when he’s having an attack.  And what did you do?”

Harry’s eyes dropped to the floor.  “I touched him. Merlin, I kissed him, even when he asked me to leave him alone.”  He pushed his thumbnail against his skin, focusing on the pressure while he tried to gather his thoughts.  

“How do I fix this?” Harry asked warily.  

Neville ran a hand through his hair before scratching at the back of his neck.  “He probably needs some time, Harry. Just let him know you’re there if he needs you.  But don’t pressure him to talk, alright?”

Harry bit his lip.  He always had the tendency to jump in, to fight whatever he needed to head-on.  But he knew Neville was right. He had to be patient. He could be patient, if anything, for Draco.

\--

He couldn’t do it.

When Harry came back to the flat, he was greeted by an empty living room.  He should have known better than to expect Draco in his chair, reading his book, his ankle crossed over his knee as it had been every afternoon since he moved in.  

Harry checked the kitchen, looking for signs of Draco’s afternoon cuppa, but found the countertops empty.  He found the hallway empty too, the only sign of life in the clearly closed door leading to Draco’s bedroom.

He tried to busy himself; he turned on the wireless, hoping the noise would distract him from the missing sounds of Draco turning pages.  He looked out the window, contemplating if the late summer heat would be too much for a short flight. He drummed his fingers on the table.

Harry wasn’t good at being patient.  

He paced, his footsteps sounding off in the hall as he walked from one end to the other.  He went into his room and tried to organize his clothes before he began pacing again. 

This was madness.  Draco was his roommate, his almost-friend, certainly not his enemy anymore.  Hell, he knew what Harry looked like when he slept and knew how his hair looked in the morning, all tousled from the static of the bedsheets.  He shouldn’t be afraid to just knock on his door, to see if he was ok.

Harry turned, ready to raise his balled fist into the air when the door opened.

“Potter, could you stop wandering around already?  Go make us some tea, we need to talk.”

He hurried to the kitchen, throwing the kettle on with a swish of his wrist.

“And owl Neville.  He should be here too,” Draco called from the hallway.

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing except a love for these characters and my own insecurities. If you're looking for something more cheery, please check out some of my other fics. Thanks for all of the love, everyone!
> 
> I wanted to send love to my betas @VanyKruemelPendragon, @meshkol and @redhorse for delving into this world with me. Also to the wonderful @tsundanire, for continuous support and other amazingness.
> 
> Tags will change as the story progresses.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/keyflight790)


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